The Anonymous Source

by A. C. Fuller

  “So, what happened?” Alex asked.

  “Never found out. Colonel pulled it and ran a feature on some kid who overcame something or other and ran some race for charity. We’d had that piece on the kid sitting around for a week—wasn’t even timely when we ran it.” He shook his head. “Never felt right. And I noticed we started running quite a few ads for SunLife broadband soon after.”

  Alex sighed. “You think the Colonel gets it from upstairs, or is it his call?”

  “What the hell are you asking for, boy? Sometimes stories get stuffed. Even yours. It’s just the business being the business. Doesn’t happen much, and when it does, we usually don’t know why.”

  Alex leaned in. “Can we go off the record here?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Woodward. Don’t be so dramatic.” Lance waved down the bartender. “Ma’am, two cognacs. And leave the bottle. It’s on my young friend here.”

  Alex waited as the bartender poured the drinks and set down the bottle. “Do you know Demarcus Downton?”

  “Downtown D? Hell yes, I know him. He came up right after the King, Bernard King. Was a better prospect, too.”

  “Why’d he start dealing?” Alex asked.

  “Usual story. Got his girlfriend pregnant and went to work instead of college. Then his dad died and he never made it back. In the neighborhood, we looked at him like a god. He was as close to a sure thing as there was in New York at the time.” Lance picked up his cigar and dragged it between his lips.

  “You think he’d lie to me about a story?” Alex asked. “I mean, a big story.”

  “Tough to say. Don’t know him well, but everyone in the neighborhood knew Demarcus was on the straight path. His mom was real strict. She used to throw rice on us to get us off her stoop.” Lance picked up the cognac bottle, shook it a bit, and put it down. “How big a story are you talking about?”

  “If he’s telling the truth? The biggest of my life. By far.”

  “Then, what can I do to help?”

  Alex smiled. “Can you get Demarcus and me into a Knicks practice?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ALEX SAT ON THE EDGE of his bed and took out his mini tape recorder. Downton had said he needed to get the video from his mother’s house in Queens and they had arranged to meet at Jack’s Bar in Brooklyn at noon the next day.

  Alex pressed play and walked to his closet as Downton’s voice filled the room.

  “A couple months after 9/11—November, I think—two cops picked me up. White guy and a black guy. Fresh faced. You know, all ‘us against the world.’“

  Alex leaned into the closet and slipped a four-foot-long wooden pole out of a thin bag made of blue velvet. After draping the pole over his shoulders, he paced the room, rotating from his waist every few seconds as he listened.

  “They said they had me on dealin’ in the park and I could get ten years ‘cause I was on parole. They’d looked me up, you know? Said if I helped ‘em, they could get me out of it. NYU was their beat. Said they’d let me operate as long as I stayed small.”

  Alex heard the occasional thud of a coffee cup on a tabletop in the background.

  “Said they’d seen a kid buyin’ from me who might be connected to 9/11. Wanted me to wear a camera for a few weeks, see if I could catch him buyin’. Man, how any of my customers could be connected to 9/11, I don’t know. Plus, how are they gonna press a terrorist if all they have him on is buying a twenty sack? But it sounded like a get-out-of-jail-free card, so I said, ‘what the hell.’“

  Alex stopped pacing when he heard himself speaking on the recording. “It’s possible the guy they were after was related to a suspected terrorist. Maybe they wanted to leverage your guy to get to the family member overseas.” Hearing his own voice made him feel like he was being watched.

  Downton continued. “Maybe, but it wasn’t my business. I was lookin’ at ten years, so I did it. It was a tiny black box I clipped to the inside of my jacket. Front looked like a button. They told me to click it on when I started workin’ and click it off at the end of the night. Wore that thing for a couple months.”

  “Did you get the cops’ names? They’re supposed to show you a badge and ID.”

  Downton laughed. “It’s not TV. When two guys in a cop car pick you up, they don’t read you your rights or anything. You just get in the car.”

  “Did they take you to the station?”

  “Nah, man. Just drove around. Black one drove and the white one told me the deal. Dropped me off at the park ‘bout a half hour later like nothin’ happened. Next day, they outfitted me with the camera in the bathrooms on the south side of the park. Every Monday after that, they’d come get the camera, then bring it back ‘bout an hour later.”

  “How did they know if they got their guy?” Alex asked.

  “Oh yeah, forgot about that. They asked me to keep an eye out for Arabs. ‘Sandniggers’ is what the white guy called ‘em. He would do the bit like Joe Pesci from Casino. You know that movie? The part where Pesci’s selling the diamonds? The white cop was Irish or something—all freckled—and he’s trying to do an Italian accent like Joe Pesci. He was a racist asshole, but it was right after 9/11. Anyway, I’d tell ‘em if I thought I’d had any Arab customers and when I’d seen ‘em.”

  Alex did squats, using the pole to keep his shoulders level. “So how’d it end?” he asked on the tape. “Why didn’t they come for the recorder once Professor Martin died?”

  “They just stopped showin’ up. Didn’t make no sense. I figure it’s an expensive camera, why wouldn’t they want it?”

  “When did they disappear?”

  “Musta been about mid-December, end of the semester, because I remember my crowd was thinnin’ out.”

  “Why’d you keep recording?”

  “Only did another couple weeks. Didn’t know if they’d show up again. After that prof got killed, I put the camera away and that was it.”

  Alex reached a hundred squats and began pacing again, using his abs to rotate side to side.

  “So why now?” Alex’s tone in the coffee shop had turned harsher. “You could have gotten Santiago off earlier if the video shows what you say it does.”

  The tape played chatter in the background. Neither spoke for a full minute.

  “Thought about that hard,” Downton said. “I mean, what was I supposed to do? Figured I probably broke laws about privacy or somethin’, plus there’s the dealing. In my line of work, you never look for attention.”

  Alex slid the pole back into the bag and placed it in the closet. He sat on the bed as he listened to himself asking Downton a question. “Then why not mail the video to the police anonymously?”

  “Truth is, I’m not sure what’s on it. Don’t know how to use the thing, but I know it didn’t go down like the police have been sayin’. Plus, you think just mailing in a video would get the kid off? Once the police have their guy, they run with it no matter what evidence shows up. And once they seen the video, they’d come lookin’ for me.”

  “Then why not send it to the defense attorney?”

  “Lawyers?” Downton laughed. “Either way it leads back to me.”

  “So, like I said before, why now?”

  “The two cops showed back up. Got the sense they really wanted their camera back. Figured if I brought it to a reporter, people could see it for what it is.”

  “But if I put out the video,” Alex said, “it will still lead back to the park that night. To you.”

  The voices in the background grew louder and Downton’s grew softer. “Maybe, but it’s just time. Never knew the city would make such a big deal outta this Santiago kid. I seen how the papers made him out to be a monster, talkin’ about him torturing bugs, watching porn all the time. But I thought somehow he’d get off since I knew they had the wrong guy. But when those two cops came back? Well, I’m not sure I’ll be around long enough to get in trouble anyway. That’s why you gotta get me into a Knicks practice as soon as possible.”

&n
bsp; Alex clicked off the recorder and lay down on his bed. He stared at the black speck on the ceiling. In the coffee shop he had been angry, but he realized now that Downton was right—the video might not lead to Santiago’s release. He knew he couldn’t use Downton as the only source in a story, but no one else could verify his account. If Santiago was innocent, he needed another source. And he needed to see that video.

  He thought of the strange call from the day before, opened his laptop, and searched for “John 12:25.” After clicking a few dead links, he found a site that listed bible verses with interpretations from different pastors. The complete passage read, “He who loveth his life shall lose it; and he who hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal.” Most thought the verse meant that if we love our worldly life—the life of sin—we’ll lose our eternal life in heaven. Instead, we should recognize the limits of temporal life and turn our attention to Jesus. But one new age pastor Alex read had an opposite interpretation. He wrote that the passage was about suicide and reincarnation. If we live this life correctly, it will be our last, and we will end the cycle of reincarnation. But if we hate our lives in the world—if we don’t value the gift of life—we might kill ourselves and be damned to continue the life we hate again and again, back on earth.

  Alex had no idea how any of this could be relevant to Santiago, or to anything else, and fell asleep reading an article about how 9/11 had ended the popularity of boy bands.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  DEMARCUS DOWNTON leaned back in an old brown recliner and turned on SportsCenter. His apartment was a one bedroom on the first floor of a four-story brownstone in Brooklyn Heights. He had only one small window that faced the street and was covered with bars.

  Sirens wailed and Downton turned up his TV. “The Knicks are going to suck again this year,” he muttered. “Jordan’s out of the league and they still can’t win the east.”

  He heard a knock at the door and muted the TV. “Neese, is that you?” He picked up his gun from the table beside the recliner and slid it into his belt as he walked toward the door. “I know the TV is loud. Deal with it. I’m already depressed about the Knicks and the season hasn’t even started.” The sirens grew louder as he peered through the peephole, his left hand on the gun at his waist. Seeing nothing but the empty street, he slid the deadbolt.

  An ambulance sped past his building as he opened the door. Downton turned away from the deafening shriek of the siren just as he felt his knee shatter. He wobbled forward as a scream caught in his throat, then fell onto his back into the apartment. His gun hit the floor and slid across the room.

  Looking up, Downton saw what he thought was a child standing over him dressed in black jeans, a white t-shirt, and sunglasses. He heard the door slam shut as the pain in his knee coursed through his whole body. He was confused. He blinked slowly and when he opened his eyes he was staring into the barrel of a long, thin gun.

  “Why are you, eh, talking to a reporter?” The figure above him spoke with a high voice and a strange accent Downton could barely understand. The voice—along with the thin, rectangular mustache and shoulder length, black hair—convinced Downton that this was not a child. Just a very short man.

  “What?” Downton said.

  The man spoke more slowly. “Why are you talking to this reporter? Is it possible you have something you are not supposed to have?”

  Downton spoke weakly through stabbing pain. “Man, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  The man stepped away from Downton and picked up a framed photo from the windowsill. “Is this you?” the man asked.

  “Me and my dad.” Downton remembered every detail of the photo. Christmas Day, 1974. Knicks, Warriors. Third-level seats at Madison Square Garden.

  “Look down at your knee, black man. Do I not look like someone who is good at what he does? Would I come here and break your knee if I did not know who you have been talking to?”

  Downton looked at his knee and saw a bloody knob of bone sticking out just above it. His head dropped back to the floor.

  “Here is what is going to happen. You will tell me about this reporter, about this video, or you will die right now, tonight, in this room.”

  “I don’t know who you are man, but I really don’t know—”

  “Stop.”

  “Man, I’m tellin’ you. I don’t know nothin’ about no reporter.”

  The man set the photo down and turned to Downton. “You fucking Americans. You never say the truth. Tell me about this reporter.”

  “He ain’t done nothing to you.”

  “A minute ago you did not know what I was talking about? Now you know he has done nothing to me?” He stepped toward Downton. “Tall man, this is it.”

  Downton tilted his head to the left to look at the man, who squatted and stared into Downton’s eyes.

  Downton turned his head away and closed his eyes. He saw his dad, smiling at him from his red plastic seat at the Garden, rafters in the background. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but I don’t know nothin’.”

  The man stood quickly from his squat, and in the same motion, fired two quiet bullets into Downton’s head.

  “I am Dimitri Rak.”

  Rak pulled black leather gloves from his jacket pocket, put them on quickly, then rummaged through the TV stand and ran his hands across the fabric of Downton’s recliner. He walked to the bedroom and went through the small dresser, inspecting every piece of clothing. He flipped over Downton’s mattress and patted up and down the stained fabric. Finally, he searched the bathroom and kitchen.

  Finding nothing, he bolted the front door from the inside and walked into the kitchen. From there, he opened the sliding door and stepped onto a tiny brick patio enclosed by a rusty fence. A dog barked in the distance.

  Rak looked around, climbed over the fence, and walked down the street.

  * * *

  Alex slept in short bursts interrupted by vivid dreams.

  In one, he stood in the doorway to his father’s writing room in their Bainbridge Island house. It was the Christmas break before his college graduation, six months before his parents died. His father clicked away on a beige computer while Alex stood silently, his throat scratchy, and watched him write. Finally, he said, “Dad, why don’t you and mom visit me in New York?” His father turned slowly, his eyes glassy and ineffectual, and spoke in the tinny, distorted voice Alex had heard over the phone two days prior. “We don’t like it there.” Alex’s mother appeared behind his father, placing her hand on his shoulder. “We don’t like it there,” she repeated. Alex surveyed her with sadness, then dread. The dread intensified until he shot up in bed.

  He checked his phone. It was 4:35 a.m. He must have slept a little.

  He lay back and stared at the ceiling, thinking about his brief interaction with Camila. He tried to form a clear picture of her standing in front of him, but couldn’t. The images of her morphed into scenes of his parents and his childhood home. He felt shaky. Why did he keep thinking about her?

  He sat up in bed and leaned against the wall. Despite the crime and corruption he covered on a daily basis, Alex always felt safe, like he lived on an invisible solidity while the world around him shook. But trying to picture Camila made him feel uncomfortable. She was amorphous, complicated, and clearly strange. She was an academic. Not his type at all.

  She might be the source he needed, but when he thought of calling her, the dread from the dream crept into his chest. “It’s fine,” he said to himself. “I’ll call her at eight.”

  He lay back down and sprawled out on the bed. “I’m fine.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Saturday, September 7, 2002

  DISHES CLANGED IN Sweet Marie’s diner as Alex breathed in the smell of bacon and fresh muffins. From his seat at the counter, he saw Camila come in. She wore jeans and a silky red shirt, her bushy hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She scanned the restaurant, found him, and navigated aisles crowded with strollers. He w
aved at an empty stool beside him.

  “You were in my class the other day,” she said, sitting down. “You didn’t tell me you were a stalker.”

  He held out his hand. “I’m an alum. Alex Vane, New York Standard. I looked you up after I saw you in court.” Alex tried to gauge her response. He couldn’t read her. “Like I said on the phone, I’m covering the Santiago trial. Can I ask you some questions about Professor Martin?”

  “Sure, but I don’t know anything about John’s death, and I won’t be in the paper. I know how it works, and I’m only willing to be interviewed on deep background. Also, you’re buying breakfast.”

  “Deal. How well did you know him?”

  “I knew him a bit.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What do you want to hear?”

  “Well, guys like me have been trying to find his reclusive ex-girlfriend for a long time. Are you her?”

  A waiter appeared from the kitchen and asked for their orders. Camila ordered a vanilla latte, a croissant with butter, and a side of bacon. Alex ordered a six-egg-white omelet with spinach and two shots of espresso over ice.

  Camila studied him as he ordered. “Keepin’ it tight for TV?” she asked, smiling. “I get students in my classes every year who plan on putting in a few years at a paper before breaking into TV. Some have connections at a station, others land a couple big stories in print and make the transition. You’ve got that ‘I need to be seen’ look about you.”

  Alex was stunned and a little hurt.

  She continued, “You know, pretend to be a journalist when what you really want to be is an entertainer. Maybe one of those guys who pontificates about trials on a multi-box talking-heads show?” She paused. “Do I have it right?”

  “Maybe there’s something to that,” Alex said. “I’ve been looking into TV jobs, but I do have a job to do now. A reporting job. So, can I ask you about Martin?”